


Interlude with a Werewolf

by loveinadoorway



Series: Want an axe to break the ice [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the morning after. And we continue on our path towards.... well, hopefully a non-dire ending. We shall see.</p><p>Quote from one of my fav songs, again, Werewolves of London, by Warren Zevon. Ahooooooo!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude with a Werewolf

_He's the hairy, hairy gent, who ran amok in Kent_  
 _Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair_  
 _You better stay away from him_  
 _He'll rip your lungs out, Jim_  
 _Huh, I'd like to meet his tailor_

_Warren Zevon - Werewolves Of London_

Greg swam slowly towards consciousness. He moved his head. Bad idea. Felt like there was a raw egg inside it and with each move, the yolk was shifting, lurching horridly.

His hands were hurting and half of his face seemed to be the rough shape of a rotting pumpkin. Which was weird, because that also seemed to be what he was tasting.

Strangely, his memory worked right up to that moment when Sherlock had squeezed his shoulder. After that, blackness.

He carefully opened his eyes and groaned at the pain. The morning sun was throwing blindingly painful daggers straight into his brain. Which meant he was at 221b Baker Street, since his own bedroom had Northern exposure.

Which also meant he would have to drag his sorry carcass past Sherlock to get out. Sherlock, who in all likelihood would have a few snide remarks about last night.

He gingerly turned over and tried to sit up. The egg yolk sloshed forward with stunning force and Lestrad lurched into the bathroom at light speed.

After a long, very hot shower, he considered himself good and ready to face the music. His phone buzzed briefly. Oh, good. If push came to shove, he could simply distract the man with a case. This morning might not turn into a complete catastrophe after all.

Sherlock was sitting in the black leather armchair, staring straight ahead with a lost expression. When Lestrade bumped into the coffee table, the other man jumped slightly.

“Awake already?”

Lestrade examined those two words for hidden barbs and undertones, found none and in the end simply nodded.

“Excellent. We need to talk.”

So very much not what Greg wanted to hear. Most definitely not what he thought he’d be able to stomach with the mother of all hangovers.

“After last night’s episode, I have decided to end our little agreement. It apparently is not working for you. You may leave now.”

“Last time I looked, you were Sherlock bloody Holmes, not my mother. You don’t get to decide what is or is not working for me.”

“Have you looked in the mirror this morning, Lestrade?”

“I can blow off steam when, where and however I please, Holmes. I hold you to our little arrangement. And now shut the fuck up and get dressed, we have a case.”

An unusually silent and grim Sherlock was carefully perusing the crime scene next to Lestrade. They hadn’t spoken a word on the way over. Greg needed to come up with something, anything, to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t take away what little hope their deal gave him.

Yes, it filled him to the brim with guilt and self-loathing that he was willing and able to bed a man who basically wanted nothing from him. Yes, love was supposed to be this beautiful thing, only it was also desperate and ugly and needy and wrong. But this was how he felt and nobody had any right to judge him.

Not even Holmes.

The corpse was badly mutilated. Lestrade couldn’t remember having seen worse in all his years at the Yard. Also not something that went down well with his hangover and Greg could’ve kicked himself for getting that drunk on a work night.

There were bits of bloody greyish-blackish fur all over the place. That, the weird footprint that looked like a deformed human foot with claws and the mutilations that looked like bite marks had already made sure the killer got a nickname. Werewolf of London. Seriously? The tabloids would have a field day.

Greg could only hope his consulting sociopath would solve this fast enough so that this lurid shit would not make it to the front pages of the usual suspects. Especially since they were rather horribly late and he looked like he’d spent the night on the floor of a pub. Which wasn’t all that far from the truth, of course.

“Boring, Greg. Booooooring,” the said sociopath spat, right on cue. “The fur is raccoon; the victim was attacked with a weeder. Given the sheer number of slashes, I’d say it was a crime of passion. Photo on the mantel, boyfriend, prison tattoos, case solved. You can take me home now.”

With that, the insufferable man turned on his heel and strode out.

Donovan’s eyebrows had threatened to take up permanent residence in her hair when Sherlock had called Lestrade by his – correct – first name. He wasn’t ready yet for that kind of gossip, not by a long stretch. So he started barking some orders, made some calls, did his very best to distract the sharpest member of his team from a small clue to what was going on in his life at this point.

When Greg reached his car a few minutes later, after soothing ruffled feathers, signing papers, talking to his superior on the phone, in short after taking care of business, Sherlock was pacing.

“Took you long enough.”

“Well, so sorry, your Highness, but there’s due protocol to follow in cases like that and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Lestrade and hence responsible for the case.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And what is THAT supposed to mean,” Greg yelled, suddenly furious.

“Since when do you think your rank impresses me in the least?”

“I was not trying to impress you. I was trying to do my JOB. In the car. NOW.”

Lestrade unlocked the car, unwilling to stand there for all the world to see, arguing about… well, he didn’t even know just what they were arguing about.

Back in the flat, Sherlock immediately grabbed his violin and started playing, completely ignoring Greg’s presence.

Greg sat down. He winced when he realized that he was sitting in Watson’s chair. He clamped down on the impulse to get up and sit in a neutral spot. He wasn’t going to relegate himself to second place.  
If Sherlock had an issue with that, he would have to say something. Out loud. Not just hit some grating high notes. Greg was not going to budge on account of a squealing violin. Especially not since John and Mary were returning from their honeymoon the very next day. If he didn’t make his point now, he never would. Not with Watson back in the picture.

Holmes put the violin down a little too hard. He winced at the sound.

“I can’t understand the logic behind your refusal to let me do the right thing, Greg. I thought it would be obvious even to YOU that we can’t keep this up. You have feelings for me and it is glaringly obvious that you are not the kind of man who can endure having them trampled on.”

Lestrade swallowed hard. What a bloody mess. He could not lose the chance to be close to Holmes. He quite simply could not. No matter how awful the chance, no matter how not really all that close “close” was in this case.

But how could he keep Sherlock, without losing himself?


End file.
